


It’s A Great Idea (Who Are You To Judge?)

by thesnadger



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Relativity Falls, Fluff, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Its Like If Vodka And Nightmares Had A Baby, Lots of glitter, Poor Decisions and Alcohol, Some feels, drinking buddies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 15:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7898017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesnadger/pseuds/thesnadger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Relativity Falls/Canon crossover. Stan isn't sure how he and Ford ended up in this dimension. Mabel isn't sure how the old man standing in front of her could possibly be her little nephew Stanley. Just about the only thing they are sure about is that both of them need a drink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It’s A Great Idea (Who Are You To Judge?)

**Author's Note:**

> Massive, massive thanks to @scribefindegil for coming up with this with me, brainstorming, betaing and providing swing dance moves, and for the line Stan says about the sea. 
> 
> This fic is totally the product of our own shenanigans on the road trip. We just thought, what if Grunkle Stan and Grauntie Mabel actually had the chance to meet and make poor decisions together? This was the result.

_How could this happen to me?_ Stan thought, drumming his fingers against the shellacked wood of the table, which was tastefully decorated with light up plastic pineapples _. How did I end up here?_

 

A tricky question to answer, especially with alcohol blurring his memory of the past several hours. He'd barely even listened to Ford's explanation about the “relative space-time anomaly” or why they were sailing into it. Whatever Ford's plan had been it must have gone wrong somehow, because inside the storm the waters had gotten rough, a whirlpool had formed around them and they'd been pulled under and spat out on land. They'd landed in front of a building that, despite the neon color scheme, wasn't very different from the Mystery Shack he knew. The railings were covered in gold glitter, and out front there was a two-headed deer in a blonde wig and makeup, but it was the same basic building. Had the steps that creaked and the roof that was built at an awkward angle that made it impossible to keep the “S” on the sign. It was just the people living in it that were different.

 

Yeah, that part was still hard to swallow. When he and Ford had found their feet again after being thrown from the deck of the Stan O' War II, they found they were looking at a couple of weirdly familiar faces. The birthmark on the old man's forehead had helped, as had the fact that the star on the old lady's fez matched the one on Mabel's sweater perfectly. But even without those signs, he knew Dipper and Mabel when he saw them. Even if they were a lot . . . taller. And greyer.

 

While Ford and the . . . weird, gangly old man that had to be some alternate universe version of Dipper had stared at each other and started tossing out nerd words about crossed timelines and alternate dimensions, the stocky old woman in the fortune-teller getup—he knew who she was, the sheer number of sequins on her skirt alone was a giveaway—had just stared at him. He must have been staring back, who could blame him? But then she shoved her brother aside and leaped at him, grabbing him by the collar and screaming _“Why are you so old!??”_ at him accusingly.

 

Of course, he'd pushed her off and told her that she had some nerve asking him that when the last time he'd seen her she'd been sporting braces, now she was tall as him and shriveled up like a raisin. Well, that had set things off. There's been a lot of shouting all around, and the chaos was really only broken up because the front door of the Shack had started to open from the inside. Dipper had spun around and shouted for “you kids” to stay inside, because “if you meet your alternate selves the whole universe could explode or implode or, or something!”

 

Stan had decided not to think too hard about that.

 

So Dipper and Ford had gotten back to their nerd talk, trying to figure out what was going on and how to safely get them back to their own dimension. (Stan hoped the two of them would figure it out fast. He didn't know if he had another thirty years in him.) Meanwhile, Mabel . . . yeah, she was Mabel all right. May as well call her that. Mabel had turned to him and asked him if he needed a drink as much as she did.

 

That had been several drinks ago, and at least four or five locations.

 

As weird as this whole situation was, he'd found that his alternate-universe grand-niece was a pretty good drinking buddy. She was a lot like the kid he knew back home, but she knew as much about safecracking as he did. She ordered fruity girl drinks that were strong enough to make your eyes cross. He'd told an off-color joke, half expecting her blush or to not understand it and she'd rolled her eyes and thrown back one of her own that he prayed would get lost in his frequently foggy memory. She was Mabel, yeah. But different.

 

When they realized how much criminal history they had in common they'd started swapping stories, trying to top each other, and one idea had led to another . . . he had vague memories of being kicked out of a casino together and the ensuing fight with security in the alley behind it. He sure as hell remembered the whoop of pride that had come out of him when Mabel had knocked one of the big goon's teeth out with an uppercut. He also remembered them stumbling through the streets of a city that definitely wasn't Gravity Falls.

 

He was 90% sure they'd been on someone's private jet at one point. Maybe it was Fiddleford's? No, no, he was a kid in this universe, that's right. That Northwest girl wasn't, though. Mabel'd only mentioned her briefly, but apparently the two of them had a history together, (maybe a present and future too? He was having enough trouble dealing with this situation without speculating on old Mabel's love life, frankly.) Maybe she let Mabel use her jet. Or maybe she didn't and Mabel used it anyway. Or maybe they'd just stolen a jet together, who knew.

 

Whatever. He'd given up on trying to figure out where he was or what was going on. Better to just take things as they came and worry about the details later, after their nerds figured out how to set everything straight.

 

Hmm. He hoped Ford and Dipper weren't blowing themselves up while they were gone.

 

Before he could let himself worry too much about that, Mabel returned from the bar, two enormous brightly colored drinks in her hands. The bar they were at—called Alibi, if the sign outside could be trusted—was one of those tiki-themed places. Everything done up in fake bamboo and colored lights and lanterns, which meant the drinks had enough fruit in them to fend off scurvy for a month and a half and were topped with two tiny umbrellas.

 

“Bwop!” She set the drinks down, sliding one over to him. “Drink up, old man. It's got glitter in it, so it'll make your insides shiny.”

 

Stan took the offered drink and stirred, letting the colored lights reflect off the shiny powder inside. He distantly hoped it was the edible kind before taking a slurp. It hit the back of his throat with an intense burn and spread over his tongue with a sugary, sharp fruity taste that was strangely familiar.

 

“It's like if vodka and nightmares had a baby,” he said, plucking out the cherry garnish and popping it in his mouth.

 

“Ha! You'll get used to it.” She nudged the fruit aside and took a swig. “Bribed the bartender to let me get behind the counter and mix 'em myself. No one else gets 'em right.”

 

“If this kills me, I'm holding you responsible for the funeral expenses,” he said, finishing the cherries and crumpling the tart pineapple in the bar napkin.

 

“Nah.” Mabel smirked “I'll just toss you over the fence of an aviary and let the crows deal with ya.”

 

“You're a cruel, heartless old woman.”

 

“And you're a creepy, weird geezer.”

 

“You've got a smart mouth, anyone ever tell you that?”

 

“Yep. And you've got a really stinky jacket.”

 

“You wear too much makeup.”

 

“So do you.” Before Stan could react, Mabel pulled a lipstick from her purse and swiped it across the front of Stan's nose. “Boop! Gotta admit, it's your color though.”

 

Stan rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, removing as much as he could. He looked at the dark red residue. Glittery, of course. He smirked and took another swallow of his drink.

 

“You're right,” he said. “You do get used to the taste.”

 

* * *

 

 _Well,_ Mabel thought, _this is certainly happening._

 

She tried not to stare too much at the old man sitting across from her. Stanley, it was Stanley. She may as well call him by his name because there was definitely no getting around it. Looked like the little tyke she'd left back home was never gonna grow into that schnoz of his. Well, no matter. It gave him character.

 

He was Stanley. There was really no mistaking it. The way he hunched his shoulders when she brought up a topic that he didn't want to talk about. The way he'd reached over and taken the maraschino cherries from her drink when he'd finished his—just like how Stanley always grabbed the extra marshmallows out of her hot chocolate even when he had plenty of his own. He had the same tells, too—the way he closed off his body language and pretended to be annoyed when he was lying. And just as quick to start a fight as her lil' spitfire. But this man had a gruff, hard voice and tired eyes, and when he'd taken off his jacket she'd caught a glimpse of a scar on him that looked to be from a knife fight.

 

Every now and then she'd get the impulse to reach across the booth and hug him, ask him who'd hurt him and promise it would all be okay. But she was pretty sure that would freak him out. So instead she channeled that energy into tapping the table in rhythm with the music that was coming from the little stage across the room. It was karaoke night. Presently there was a pair of young women giggling and belting out a tune she didn't know. They weren't following the melody very closely, but they were clearly having fun and their energy was infectious.

 

The girls left the stage and they were replaced by a middle-aged man with a strong voice, who started singing a tune she _did_ recognize, an upbeat song from her childhood. She glanced back at Stanley and noticed a little smile on his face. His fingers were tapping the table along with the tune . . . he recognized it too. Well, why not? This Stanley would have grown up in the sixties . . . he' _d_ probably heard it on radios and jukeboxes when he was a kid, just like she had.

 

Mabel grinned and upped the tempo of her bouncing and shaking, pushing herself away from the table and shimmying her shoulders, dancing in place. Stanley laughed.

 

“What're you doing?” he asked.

 

“I'm performing open heart surgery. What does it look like I'm doing?” She pushed an empty table aside to make room. This bar didn't have a dance floor, but that had never stopped her before.

 

“C'mon!” she said, reaching a hand out. “I _know_ you can dance. My lil manly Stanley practically begged me for lessons, even if he had to pretend it was for boxing.”

 

“Pfft.” Stanley – Stan, he liked to be called Stan—stood up and reached for her offered hand. “Okay, but I lead.”

 

Mabel shrugged and took his hand, letting him pull her further into the center of the space she'd cleared. He lifted his arm and she twirled beneath it, laughing when he spun her around three times before catching her around the waist and moving into the basic. He placed his other hand on her waist and led her back and forth a few paces.

 

He was quick on his feet—no surprise, really. But Mabel had the sense that he was holding back. She grinned at him. “C'mon, I can keep up with you. Show me your moves! Unless you're scared you'll break a hip.”

 

Stan laughed. He spun her out and then tossed her back into his other arm as he led her into a rapid Charleston. She kicked up her feet and laughed back at him, delighted. From that point on he got more energetic, spinning her back and forth from one move to another as they whirled across the tiny dance floor.

 

More than a few people had turned their attention from their drinks and conversation and were looking at them instead. Stan must have noticed it too, but he didn't seem embarrassed. If anything, he was reveling in the attention, showing off with extra spins and flourishes. Little Stanley only ever danced in the Mystery Shack, or out in the woods when he thought no one was looking. Not where people could see, not with his bastard father's voice in his head calling him a sissy for doing something he loved.

 

But this one, this old man in front of her . . . he danced. He danced out in public with dozens of eyes on him and he _loved_ it.

 

Mabel glanced across at him with a sly smile. “That all you can do, old man?” He met her challenge with a grin and a raised eyebrow. Before Mabel knew it, he'd pulled her towards him and swept her legs high into the air, swinging her first to one side and then the other. She whooped as he set her back down and gave her a cocky tilt of his head.

 

As the song came to an end, she threw up one arm dramatically and let herself drape back over his knee. By this point most of the room's attention was on them, and when the machine stopped playing, a dozen or so people started applauding. Stan grinned, and she grinned back with pride.

 

One of the waiters approached them, clapping. “That was awesome,” he said. “You two make a cute couple.”

 

Mabel was so shocked she barely noticed Stan had dropped her, and she scooted back in horror, pointing an accusing finger at the waiter.

 

“You put those words _right back in your mouth_ young man!” she shouted.

 

The waiter put a hand over his mouth, confused. “I'm . . . sorry? I didn't mean to . . .”

 

“We're related,” Stan explained, as Mabel got to her feet.

 

“Oh! I'm so sorry!” the waiter looked very embarrassed. “Are you brother and sister?”

 

The two of them made brief eye contact with each other before uncertainly replying, “. . . Yeeeeees?”

 

“Forgive me, I should have realized. You look like you could be twins!”

 

The waiter stared as they both burst out laughing. He began edging uncomfortably back towards the kitchen.

 

“I'll . . . I'll just go get you some waters,” he said.

 

Mabel nodded through the giggles as the two of them found their seats again. “Heh . . . twins.”

 

She suddenly thought about Dipper and Ford. Hopefully they weren't blowing themselves up while they were gone.

 

Across from her, Stan's expression seemed to have changed. His gaze was a little guarded, and he stirred his drink with the remains of the umbrella, clearly trying to look casual.

 

“So. In your universe . . . Dipper was the one who built the portal. And ended up trapped in it . . .” he began.

 

Mabel nodded, feeling a twinge deep in her gut. “. . . And in your universe, it was Stanford.” she said softly.

 

It had been hard enough to come to terms with the fact that her brother had been trapped between dimensions for thirty years. If she thought too hard about her little nerdling back home winding up out there, lost and aching among the stars he loved so much, she might start crying.

 

“Right. So . . .” he took a deep breath. “I'm guessing . . . I mean . . .” he shook his head. “I don't know how much of your life ended up like mine. I don't know if I really wanna know. Y'know? I'm guessing there's a lot of stuff that went the same.”

 

“Probably. Alternate universes, am I right?” she gave an awkward smile, wiggling her fingers in a spooky-ooky manner to release a little of the tension that was building.

 

“All I want to know is . . . did you stick together?” His voice softened. He stopped trying to look everywhere but her face and actually met her eyes. His gaze was honest and pleading. “. . . You and Dipper, I mean. Did the two of you stick with each other . . . no matter what happened?”

 

“Absolutely.” She smiled, relieved that the question was one that she could answer. A similar relieved look spread over Stan's face. “We're two peas in a pod, Dipper and me. Nothing can come between us, just like you and Stanford.”

 

Oh. That had been the wrong thing to say, she knew it immediately when she saw Stan's face change.

 

“Orrr . . . maybe not?” she squirmed a little in her seat, wondering if she could throw her vial of emergency glitter to distract him from what she'd just said.

 

He took a deep breath and sighed. “Eventually. In the end . . . it all worked out.”

 

She nodded quickly, slurping down the last of her drink.

 

“Okay . . . if we've reached _that_ part of the night, then there's something I want to ask you,” she said.

 

“Hoo boy. Well, I started it.” Stan shrugged and finished his own glass off. “Hit me.”

 

“Your father . . .”

 

Stan stiffened just from hearing that, which really answered Mabel's question before she even asked it. But she had to know for sure.

 

“In your universe, is he still . . . ?” She trailed off, not sure which words to use.

 

“Tough as a cinderblock and not easily impressed?” Stan supplied. Mabel nodded. It was almost exactly the same phrasing Stanford had used to describe him. That was enough proof for her. It was the same Filbrick, whatever the year.

 

She reached across the table and put a hand on Stan's.  
  


“I just want you to know,” she said. “We got you out. Me and Dipper . . . we got the three of you away from him.”

 

Stan didn't say anything. His face said a lot. Mabel pulled away and sat back in the booth, suddenly awkward and uncomfortable.

 

“I'm gonna go . . . powder my nose.” she pointed to the bathrooms behind her.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, sure . . . course . . .” Stan said.

 

Mabel stood and headed off in a completely different direction.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, kid. Make me a Suffering Bastard, wouldya?” Stan called to the waiter as he passed by, trying to avoid eye contact. “Wait, someone beat you to it! Ha! But seriously bring me alcohol immediately.”

 

The waiter shuffled off, muttering something under his breath. Stan sat back in the booth and heaved a sigh. That had been awkward.

 

He was trying real, real hard not to think about what it meant that Mabel seemed to have a lot of the same stories he did. He didn't want to imagine the possibility of her having had to fend for herself on the streets, or fight to survive in prison . . . or even the part he knew had to be pretty much the same, having to bang her head against the wall in that horrible basement for thirty years trying to start that damned machine.

 

That damn thing. No matter what universe they were in, it was ruining lives.

 

At the same time . . . she still had spirit, didn't she? Her eyes had bags under them now, but they still sparkled. She had that same fire in her, that same excitement, and the same huge, earnest smiles. Her smiles were never fake. And he could tell. He knew a lot about faking a smile.

 

If her life had been hard . . . if it had kicked and stomped on her as often as he feared it had, it hadn't broken her. It hadn't worn her down or taken away anything that made her Mabel.

 

He didn't like to admit it, but he was still afraid for her sometimes . . . not the old woman he'd met today (or was it yesterday by this point? He was pretty sure he'd seen the sun set and rise again) but the little girl he'd last left in Piedmont. A part of him feared that the world would rip that smile from her face. That she and her brother were only happy because they didn't know enough to be miserable. And when the world came down hard on them . . . especially Mabel . . .

 

Well. It didn't matter what he'd worried about. He'd been wrong. This Mabel had seen hardship, he was sure of that. And he was just as sure that she hadn't let it beat her. His little fighter.

 

His thoughts were interrupted by a heavy book slamming onto the table beside him. Mabel was grinning at him, eyebrows raised encouragingly, hands curled around the book's edges. Stan looked back down. It was a book of karaoke songs.

 

“Welp,” he said, standing and turning towards the door. “Time to return to the sea.”

 

“Get back here, you.” Mabel grabbed the edge of his coat, yanking him back down. “You're not getting out of this that easily.”

 

“Look. I told you this when you were twelve, and I'm telling you now—you do _not_ want to hear this voice singing.” Stan said.

 

“I don't buy that for a second.” She flipped the book open and started turning pages. “Bob Dylan's voice sounds like a whiny teenage boy's after he's smoked too much reefer. If he can sing, so can you.”

 

“I don't know . . .”

 

“Aha!” Mabel's eyes lit up, and she pointed to a song on the list. “Here we go. It's perfect. You've practically got the same voice anyway.”

 

Stan peered over her shoulder, a little wary of what he'd find. He was pleasantly surprised. “Oh . . . y'know . . . I actually know that one.”

 

“See? I'm putting your name down.” she started scribbling on a small slip of paper. “Accept your fate, it's happening.”

 

Stan sighed and took a sip of his drink.

 

“And _this_ one will be mine! You're gonna just love it, I know.” She added a couple of stars to her name and carried the slips of paper up to the DJ.

 

“Should I be terrified right now?” he asked as she walked off.

 

“Yep!” she called back.

 

It didn't take long for his number to come up. Stan took a last swallow for courage and walked up to the little makeshift stage. He tried to tell himself it was just like giving a tour at the Shack. Just working the crowd.

 

“ _Well you play that Tarentella, all the hounds'll start to roar_ ,” he sang “ _the boys all go to hell and then the Cubans hit the floor..._ ”

 

He heard Mabel whoop encouragingly as he sang. Surprisingly, she wasn't the only one who seemed interested. A table of twenty-somethings nearby seemed to recognize the song. They looked excited to see someone the right age with the right sort of gravelly voice performing it.

 

“ _Let me fall out of the window with confetti in my hair,”_ he sang. “ _Deal out jacks or better on a blanket by the stairs, I'll tell you all my secrets, but I lie about my past, so send me off to bed forever more._ ”

 

The song ended, and Stan was surprised that Mabel wasn't the only one clapping. He passed the microphone off to her and sat down in the front while the opening bars of her song began. When he recognized the tune, he laughed.

 

“ _I'll buy you a diamond ring my friend, if it makes you feel all right_ ,” she sang. “ _I'll buy you anything my friend, if it makes you feel all right. 'Coz I don't care too—much for money, money can't buy me love!”_

 

“Liar!” he jeered.

 

Mabel stuck her tongue out and continued singing. She was really belting those lyrics out. Stan grinned—hard not to be reminded of that night on the roof of the Shack, when he and the kids sang to drive back the zombie hordes. At least this audience wouldn't turn on then and devour their brains if they stopped. Probably not.

 

After that, the two of them ordered more drinks. They talked about music, and about the undead, and Mabel started looking through the songbook again. One thing led to another and before he really knew what was happening she was taking his arm and pulling him onto the stage, telling him to come on, the two of them should make this a duet.

 

The music started. He recognized the tune and fidgeted a little.

 

“I don't really know the words...” he said.

 

“You don't need to know 'em, just read 'em! Come on!” She held the microphone up to her face. “ _Late at night's when you're on the go, goin' out to the disco show . . . music making some dancing, dancing making things right, you're in a mood tonight . . ._ ”

 

She passed the mic to Stan, and he squinted at the machine, doing his best to follow along. “ _Got your pumps and your stockings too, got a feeling of deja vu, everybody starts dancing, it's kind of bizarre, you're feelin' like a star._ ”

 

“ _Cause you know who you are!_ ” Mabel sang, leaning into the mic.

 

She met his eyes and grinned, and he knew she wanted him to do the chorus with her. Well, if he was gonna do this, he was gonna do it right. He took a deep breath and sang it out as loud as he could.

 

“ _You are the Disco Girl! Coming through! That girl is you!_ ” they sang together. “ _Disco Girl! Watch her go, like a torpedo-o-ooh!”_

 

The two of them stood back to back, swaying back and forth and grinning at each other.

 

“ _Disco dance! Disco sing! Disco Girl doing her thing! See that girl! What's her deal? Disco Girl is real!”_

 

Out in the bar, there were surely some punks rolling their eyes at the two old weirdos singing BABA. Back where he came from, there was a thirteen year old boy who would probably pay any amount of money for a blackmail video of this. But all that really mattered to Stan in that moment was that he was singing with his grand-niece. Or his great-aunt. Or whatever. It didn't really matter. She was Mabel, and that was good enough.

 


End file.
